


there's a constant craving charred in our bones

by labime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Graphic Description of Sex, Jonerys Secret Santa 2018, Light Angst, Pool Sex, R Plus L Equals J, Season/Series 8 Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labime/pseuds/labime
Summary: He had talked about it on their journey to the North, soft murmurs that formed a string of words describing it, each fanning over the sweat-slick skin on her nape as he buried his head into her hair, and she’d only half listened to it, drowsy and pleasurably sore after they exhausted each other throughout the night. The castle was built over hot springs, he'd said, as he sensed her cheerful mood darkening with their approach to the cold wasteland he called home and the scarcer heat was to be found, even as she sat by the fire the servants steadily nurtured, even as she sank under the heavy furs with her lover’s skin to warm her.





	there's a constant craving charred in our bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daenerys1417](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daenerys1417/gifts).



> I’m so sorry for the delay, I know this should have been posted about two weeks sooner but I hope you will enjoy this nevertheless :)

He had talked about it on their journey to the North, soft murmurs that formed a string of words describing it, each fanning over the sweat-slick skin on her nape as he buried his head into her hair, and she’d only half listened to it, drowsy and pleasurably sore after they exhausted each other throughout the night. The castle was built over hot springs, he'd said, as he sensed her cheerful mood darkening with their approach to the cold wasteland he called home and the scarcer heat was to be found, even as she sat by the fire the servants steadily nurtured, even as she sank under the heavy furs with her lover’s skin to warm her.

The icy winds of winter always seemed to find her, boundless and unforgivable, screaming from afar and slinking close to lash her face, to chip at the outline of her soft lips and bite her fingertips.

It had been nothing less than an ordeal, to adapt to the climate once they arrived in Winterfell, but as with everything else, she endured and survived.

She wishes she could say she does not know why Jon is coming to her with an offer to show her the hot springs he hadn’t mentioned in moons, especially now that she has adjusted nicely to life in the North, when he has only talked to her about battles and strategy for a long time and only when they were surrounded by their close circle of confidants to replace the tense instants of empty silence brimming in truths left unsaid with their observations and suggestions, but she isn’t an innocent young girl and she easily recognizes the wild, brazen need glinting in his eyes. The same Daenerys is certain is reflected in hers as she accepts.

It is, unsurprisingly, freezing outside, but she refuses to flinch, gloved hands curling into fists as she matches Jon's steps.

Everything is white, it seems. Snow covering even the granite of the imposing castle, snow weighty on top brittle leaves, snow slithering from withered trees, snow dancing, carried by harsh gusts, white and silver and unchangeable. Everything is dying, it seems, everything disappearing faster than time allows her to enjoy. Frost a call to arms, a prelude to blood, an omen of death, the menace of a dead king riding her fallen dragon and devastating lives as easily as one might blow out a candle, the first distant sound of the first pickaxe that will dig a new grave.

Under her feet, the cobblestones are still slimy from the recent hailstorm, flakes of melted snow not yet hardened to ice, and she is mindful of her pace, having already risked stumbling a couple of times. Jon sees it, though he says nothing, knowing her enough now to understand she’d refuse to admit to weakness. Instead, he extends an arm that he offers wordlessly and that she accepts in the same manner.

Jon's worry is apparent in the furrows on his forehead, she won’t acknowledge it aloud, prefers not to complicate a situation that has no doubt already been made worse by consenting to him despite knowing perfectly well how the night would end.

If Tyrion were there, and if she were willing to talk about such a matter with him, he would have advised against it. She is sure Davos would have tried to guide Jon away from her in a similar fashion—for now, at least—when things are so undefined between the warden of the North and herself, Bran Stark’s revelations having trapped everyone affected by them in a political nightmare.

There’s an obvious reason why Jon didn’t ask her to accompany him with Tyrion in the vicinity; there’s a reason why she purposely avoided the corridors they were the most likely to encounter Davos. _Fools hate to listen to voices of reason_ , someone had told her once.

They walk to the godswood, gathering a few queer looks as they both head together to their destination. It is probable she should have more care for appearances and try to crush the rumors that are undoubtedly forming, lest they spread too far, but with death at their gates, Daenerys finds she simply cannot be bothered by petty opinions and court gossip. Let them talk and let them choke on their assumptions.

No doubt smallfolk and nobles alike would tell tales of her wicked ensnarement of the king in her bed and of his stupidity for falling into the same trap that cost the previous king his army and kingdom. Her enemies are predictable, unoriginal in their slander. When faced with the impossibility of hurting her directly, they will attack her reputation and ridicule her. She had learned that as she ruled in Meereen.

She no longer has any patience left for it.

 

 

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The godswood is as cold and inhospitable as she remembers, the feeling of being watched unshakable as she stares fixedly at the face carved into the hard trunk of the heart tree, crimson sap dribbling out of its eyes like blood. Irrationally, that place elicits in her the impression of being an intruder in a way the lords who had thrown more than a few chosen words at her hadn’t managed to and the too-many branches of the too-many towering trees folding on themselves seem to trap her into a realm secluded from the rest of the world, so deeply separated from it that—

Jon’s hand presses gently on her wrist, reminding her that she’s not alone and she blinks up, almost startled. He guides her across the godswood, their boots plodding into the mass of snow that rises increasingly higher the deeper they delve into the godswood until finally receding as they approach the cave leading to the hot springs.

She almost doesn’t notice the stale air as she draws in a long breath, only the rush of boiling near-corporeal heat.

There are several candles already lit, littered around the dingy cave, Daenerys observes, the flames swaying and flickering with each movement they make. He must have planned ahead, she realizes, with a pang of amazement. It is nothing like what she imagined, the squalid place crowded with insects and rats fading away and the absence of stalactites and humidity easily explained by the heat, of which she locates the source quickly. Scattered throughout the cave are three pools and, sure enough, thick vapors emanate from each of them, floating and swirling above the water.

Daenerys takes a few steps, feet steadier on dry, flat rocks, and souses in the mist that fills the place until it fills her lungs, luxuriating in the fierce warmth she had longed for, letting it enclose her before it is all she is herself thrumming with. She is in her element, here. Fire means power, fire means security, fire means hope.

She whirls around—slowly, purposefully—and is the recipient of another kind of heat, for Jon regards her with an insistent hunger that reminds her of a starving wolf. She wonders how long he has had a thirst for that which he deprived them both due to his beliefs regarding their lineage.

“Why did you bring me here, my lord?”

The question is unnecessary, almost cruel in the originating desire to draw out a confession from him, and the resulting answer shall provide no insight she was unconscious of, yet it is something she desires to hear. Not out of vanity, she is embarrassed to admit, albeit only to herself.

He clears his throat and gestures to the space surrounding them. “You seemed interested when we talked about the architecture of the castle, Your Grace. More precisely—”

“I remember quite perfectly, my lord,” she interrupts, before he can speak in greater detail about the castle layout. “But I fail to understand the object of your sudden interest.”

His expression changes as he understands what she is prompting him to voice but he meets her gaze steadily, advancing toward her. His eyes linger over the expanse of her body and she feels an ache ignite in the pit of her stomach, the urge to touch and be touched soaring at the caress that hadn’t yet reached her, the sensation of his hands curling on the curves of her body a caress she is not likely to forget in the foreseeable future.

Her jaw would have slackened at the direct, blunt answer he gives next she did not already know, already expected as much from him. They had always taken turns challenging each other, one of them pushing when the other pulled.

“I want you,” he says.

 

 

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She considers denying him if only to give him a taste of the interminable hours that dragged by with his deliberate indifference for her. It is only fair, isn’t it, to retaliate after having been wounded. She is sure a warrior would agree. She could stab him with a poisonous blade (a few words, a dismissal, a look of contempt, it’s all it would take, really) and let him die speared on his Stark honor but the mere idea of hurting him evokes in her a deep aversion.

If he is to regret it later, then it will be punishment enough, Daenerys surmises, pretending to be unconcerned. If he chooses to reminisce about their encounter with shame in his averted eyes, and if he wants forgiveness, then she will spare no thought for him. (But she will. She _will_. Out all things she felt for Jon, apathy has never been one of them).

She wants to cremate what is between them and forget its existence but fire only flares it to life and they are both too involved and it is something she should have know would happen and she should take that moment of flashing realization to try and stop the process that is inexorably drawing them towards further pain but she doesn't.

 

 

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A shiver runs down her spine as his lips claim hers, urgent and exploratory, and she twists in his arms, arching up against him, her breast crushed against his chest. His hands encircle her narrow waist, pull her tighter to him and she knows they will leave traces on her skin and her own hands curve around his neck, fingers shoving into flesh, clawing at the tender patch of skin she finds there. It makes him groan. It makes him bite. She relishes in that too, in the sting in her bottom lip when he catches it easily between his teeth before soothing the flash of pain with his tongue.

The thrill is sharp and changeless, even as she pushes him away and he almost stumbles back, her actions unexpected. He looks dazzled and flushed and ravenous as he pants and looks up questioningly. His lips are bright red, his forehead dewed with perspiration, his hair disheveled, his muscles taut, and she can see blood trickling down his neck, but he seems oblivious of that as he watches her with desperate intensity that is almost stifling after moons of detachment.

She can recognize an act when she sees it and Jon is terrible at deceiving people, especially those he cares about and his indifference had been unconvincing, at best, but it is still with complacency that she observes how it breaks and crumbles right before her eyes.

She is unsure about what brought this on, had not expected the man who had taken an oath of celibacy he intended to honor until his last breath to cave to his urges, not after he decided with a stony resolve that having the same blood running in their veins would be too great a wickedness for them to pursue a relationship. Jon with his firm morals and his firmer beliefs that they were inherently correct, she remembers having thought, as she listened to him with apparent coolness. She hadn’t expected his rejection to hurt, not after Drogo and Daario. She believed her heart shattered into a strange repugnant shape, too hardened by precedent heartbreaks to crack once again because of a man and had been proven to be wrong.

What happened, today? She debates asking but her choice ultimately falls upon silence. If it is a matter he wishes to speak about with her, Daenerys has no doubt he will so.

She removes the heavy furs she encased herself into, frail protection against the harsh winter, and she pulls her gloves and boots off, then takes off every other piece of clothing until she is left in the black gown Missandei has chosen for her, fingers toying with the laces of her bodice.

The bulky gown falls down, pooling around her dainty ankles, her diaphanous smallclothes the only thing masking her nudity—just barely, not enough to hide the pinkness of her nipples, tightened to sharp peaks, or the fabric stuck to her skin with sweat and arousal.

She waits with a curved eyebrow in quiet expectation. _Then show me._ He strolls over to her leisurely, a meager attempt to conceal his eagerness to undress her, to taste her. It is useless for she sees his desire with the clarity one sees the moon on cloudless black nights and it is a voracious thing, a set of snapping incisors that want in blood and the gaping jaw of a wolf that covets honey and she welcomes it, and she gives and takes, and in this game no one loses.

(She will let him sprawl her like a feast to be devoured and she will let him mark and carve until his name is written on her skin, it is only fair if she obtain the same, if she scratches ribbons on his skin that will appear even once he will be fully clothed, deep slender lines scored onto his collar and half-moons cut into his cheeks. She once tried to scour herself of the possessiveness she harbors, knowing it to be dangerous even for those who do not bear the future of their kingdoms on their shoulders, but the sentiment is lodged between her ribs, and aches with possibilities.)

Her smallclothes are ripped away from her body and she stands bare and unashamed and yearning. His gaze drops to her thighs where her arousal is running down her skin, she knows it even after closing her eyes, is capable of discerning the path his eyes trace on her body.

When she opens her eyes again, she wishes she hadn’t, because the glimmer in his, drifting amidst sparkles, is not for her body but for her.

She has been looked at by many men in many ways, but invariably lust would oscillate in their eyes, however fickle it was. It would either dim or increase, but it was a constant for Daenerys as far as her memory could take her, ever since her chest grew and her tits showed. Viserys always made sure they showed when he invited important, powerful men who he endeavored to rally to his cause, his war against the usurper and the promise of wealth and glory. They would peer at her, gaze swiping over her and skittering away in resentful guilt when she was too young to even understand why her body was of any interest for men (she learned soon, too soon) and later, after she had her own crown to wield, they would admire languidly, grappling with their lasciviousness and their distaste for the power she had over them, the power she would never relinquish.

Her beauty was renowned far beyond the seven kingdoms, not undeservedly, and it made her feel strong sometimes, for it made them weak; it made them short-sighted, it made them fall, all without as much a gesture from her, a smile or a wave or a wink or a word. Her allure was otherworldly, she had been told by Daario, it shredded armor and flesh and bone.

Some had looked upon her in a mummery of love, a sham she found insulting, for they believed their superficial infatuations to be sincere, to be something other than distorted lust embedded in sludge among crumbs of obsession. For others she had been a challenge, a land with the allure of being unobtainable, and therefore worthier of conquering; they wanted to ravage and maul and take, but she never ceded an inch to them. And there were those who had wanted to worship her like a deity, kneel at her feet and do her bidding, whatever it would be.

The latter, they shaped her like one of those immense and ancient statues of Braavos, like something that was larger than life, greater than mortality, a creature of legends like her dragons, and it was flattering and it was vexing and, occasionally, it made her feel more like a doll or a piece meat they would gladly tear into and eat with their bare hands and those moments had nothing grand to them, and in those moments she was again a tool and an ornament and _a thing_ to be used and not a woman.

For all he immensely desires her, she never glimpses a shadow of disregard for her person in Jon’s eyes and that triggers something in her, a respect she never had for her other lovers. The need to be touched blooms and spreads like a tidal wave in her, and she decides it is time for her to indulge in what she craves.

She turns to the side, leans away, her form cutting an uneven outline into the fog as she scuds to the nearest pool. She assumes the water is almost scalding but it only brushes her gently, her skin unblemished where some others’ might peel. She closes her eyes in blissful contentedness, the warmth invigorating her, suffusing her skin with colors as she dives, waters closing over her head and cloaking her in a soft embrace as she swims down and tests the depth of the pool.

She emerges before having completed her task, sputtering and rubbing away the wet hair that shadows her vision in silver tendrils.

“How deep is—” she begins asking when she is afoot again only for her voice to die out when her attention is otherwise occupied.

A delicious spasm runs between her legs at the sight of Jon naked as he steps down into the hot water, his body golden-hued and glowing in the candle light, painting his broad shoulders and his toned chest, barely visible hair forming a line that narrows down between his strong tights where his cock is. A slight wince momentarily crosses his features, confirming that her suspicion about the pool was indeed accurate, and she idly wonders if she and Jon shared the same peculiarity, and if the water would've burnt someone else.

Her name rings with pristine clarity in the silence of the cave when he says it. Her moan bounces off the primeval walls when he lays his bold hands on her breasts, kneading the soft flesh under the roughness of his hands. A hiss spills from his lips when her hand wraps around his cock and she strokes his hardness while keeping her eyes locked with his. He doesn't blink even once while they continue their delicious torture, touches too fleeting and pressure too light, Jon's lips hovering a few inches away from Daenerys', their gasping breaths mingling with the hot, wispy vapors surrounding them.

When their lips touch again, she feels it, the burn. Seeping into her, cleaving into her, reminding her of that sensation she is still so unused to. And desire wells in her and it clogs her lungs and she can’t breathe and it might be fever that torments her and it might be the same thing that festers in him for he kisses her harder, with teeth on her lips and his tongue in her mouth (taking, taking, taking, because she keeps giving and he doesn’t know how not to want her) and his hands on her hips, on the swell of her breasts, on the small of her back and the slope of her spine. (He cannot get enough of her and she is never sated and therefore there’s no end to something that has no limits.)

“Daenerys,” he says again, he tongue curling around the name with reverence. _Daenerys. Daenerys. Daenerys. Daene—_

Names have power and the way they are spoken can change their meaning. He says Daenerys and she hears My queen in that respite after the battle, the atmosphere almost serene in its stillness and despite the lose she’d felt as if a limb had been cut from her, when he had taken her hand and decided to trust her. He says Daenerys and she hears My love spoken in a breathless murmur as their bodies joined and shook with the tremors that coursed through them, the ship vacillating raggedly as it glided and jumped over waves, he says Daenerys and she hears Dany and she hates that nickname on account of her brother uttering it with aversion too often but she likes the tenderness lurking in his voice when he voices it unthinkingly.

She crushes her mouth against him before she chokes on everything he confides with a few vowels.

 

 

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“Take me,” she breathes.

She knows how to empty a man’s mind.

 

 

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The jagged ledge Jon has backed her against scraps her back when he hoists her up so that her toes barely graze the boggy soil and sharp rocks, drops of water trickling along her chest. She yanks his head down but he needs no guidance at all, has already learned her body, and he nibbles and licks and sucks the column of her throat down to her chest, tongue darting to catch the water dripping from the hard buds of her nipples, his beard rubbing her tender flesh.

He presses tender kisses over her reddening skin, then his mouth drifts, almost compulsively, back to her lips, swallowing her moans, tongue sweeping along hers. They pull away only to catch their breath, the momentary distance quickly closed off. She whimpers into the kiss, abandons herself to the bliss gradually churning up in her. Her breasts are already swollen when he pours lukewarm water over her chest, tight and sensitive, but positively ache after he does, her need crisp and shearing, humming and bleeding out in her.

Her hands trail across the planes and contours of his shoulders, arms, and chest, her desire blazing, and grip his ass, pulling their hips close enough to get the friction she seeks. He growls when she drapes a leg around his hips, one hand dropping and clutching her thigh, holding her securely against him and bucking as she grinds down against his hardness. They lips crash, frantic and needful, her hand buries itself in his dark locks.

His left hand presses harder into her hips, glides over moist skin, his arms twining around her waist, rocking her body, and when he wrenches his mouth away from her throat the wild but dazed look in his eyes makes her question whether his head spin too. There’s a sheen a sweat covered his forehead and a flush crawling up his neck and his painting hitches sometimes, all of this acutely reminding her that he is differently affected by their surroundings.

She traces the contours of his full lip with her fingers and asks if he would like to continue this elsewhere but he shakes his head and presses against her until their limbs are tangled together, loses himself in her with his tongue in her mouth and his fingers slipping inside her at first, listening to her give a soft gasp of surprise at the contact and feeling her bear down on his fingers, he buries his head between the legs hanging loosely from the ledge she's perched on, licks up her slit and drinks.

She revels in it, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, and her nails delving into the soil under the rocks, writhing and desperate for more of his broad tongue, which dips past her folds and twists inside her. He holds her down when her hips jump up with a jolt of red-hot pleasure and his tongue strokes that spot inside her that liquefies her limbs. She says his name, she thinks, distantly hears her voice call out, feels the blood rushing to her head, and her thighs tighten around his head in a vice-like grip and he encourages it, grunts into her cunt, the vibrations reverberating in her stiffening muscles.

He extends the torture with persistence even as she threads her fingers through his curls insistently, silently beseeches him to give her that little push that would cause ecstasy to erupt in her and a veil of darkness to cover the world in rapture. Then one of his hand is holding her ankle up, squeezing it, opening her to his liking, Her hands let go of his hair, her head slumps backward with a shriek of pleasure, and she notices, absentmindedly, that splayed across the walls are the tottering shadows of her arched body, legs parted and bent at the knee, and Jon crouched between them and—

His lips latch on the pulsing bundle of nerves and the obscene sounds of his mouth on her, sucking— _eating_ —sends a spike of arousal soaring in her. She squirms, says _please_ , says _harder_ , says _yes, like this_ , says a flurry of filthy encouragements, says his name most of all. He is rougher now, brings her cunt closer to his mouth, rubs his stubble against the soft skin her thigh and turns it red and raw, thrusts two fingers into her and crooks them and leaves her no time to accommodate to before his lips return to her center.

She looks through hooded eyes, dazed, and lifts herself up on her forearms. His eyes connect with her, burn into her, and suddenly she is shoved over that precipice she was teetering on. She is falling and she is throbbing and she is shouting and he is still lapping at her, still sucking on her, his fingers moving in her again even after her body has eased and the remnants of her pleasure are coursing through her newly relaxed muscles.

When Daenerys opens her eyes again, she is staring at the ceiling, feeling like she is gliding with the smoke, rising high into unending darkness. She wonders when it was that she closed her eyes in the first place, when it was that she fell back on grainy stone, and how she did not register the change.

Goosebumps undulate over her damp arms, the thin film of sweat and water cooling even in the ambient heat. Everything is still with silence for a while, the sound of her loud breathing the only thing echoing in the cave, but she knows that he wants to tell her something, that he is riddled with many thoughts as he looks at her but he takes a while before he says, so low she almost doesn’t hear him, “I missed you. So much. For so long.”

She senses herself gently dragged down into the water, into Jon's arms. Soft ripples flow around her skin when she tumbles into the pool, submerged in the hot water once more, and she sighs, drowsy and content, lulled by his voice.

She still hasn’t opened her eyes when she feels him tip her chin up and claim her lips in a soft kiss. She tastes herself on his lips, on his chin. She languidly licks the arousal he has not bothered washing from his calloused skin with delight, tingles flying in her, and he nuzzles his way up her shoulder to playfully bite her earlobe.

She leans back with pleasure-glazed eyes and when she speaks again, her voice is embarrassingly hoarse but her state of deep contentedness prevents her from the clarity necessary for pondering such things. She is thrilled to find the fog that envelopes them does not recede in the least as they traverse it, Daenerys having spun them around so that he was backed against the far end of the ledge, and Jon’s palm slithers up along her spine to rest on the nape of her neck, flurries of desire cavorting in her.

She pushes her tongue past his lips and he greedily sucks on it—harsh, teeth and lips catching and clasping and slowly teasing before his own tongue slides down hers—and she feels flung down into something entirely different from mere desire, a desire to possess and be possessed. The sweet sense of completion her body has been downed in is overridden in brutal desperation and he fuels it with his kisses and his greedy hands that refuses to her go of her skin for longer than a few blinks, his thirst for her never slaked, only enhanced as their lips crash again and again and they claw at each other.

She wants to tastes him too, wants to give him the same pleasure she received and feels the length of his shaft in her mouth—in her throat, down down down, deeper, the way she likes to be fucked—and hears the sounds ripped deep within him when he enters her in that way, wants to see his eyes widen and flash, primal and unbidden, and his jaw locks and he comes in her, as he comes on her and smears her breasts with his pleasure, as his lids slump, unguarded and elated.

It is impossible in their current position, with water stretching out up to her waist, for her to kneel and take him as she wishes she could but still, she cannot help but smooth her palms over his chest and lower them until they reach his cock. He inhales sharply and swears under his breath, unintelligibly, his words stuck and curdling in his mouth. She wonders if he will let her finish him like that, let her coax his release with each expert flick of her wrist pumping his cock and her clenched fist tightly holding the base of it, with just enough pressure for him to breathe her name and grunt and lurch like a green boy, but not coming, his control not yet squandered.

His hips jerk against her hands, fuck into them, and she hastens her the strokes as a new urgency washes over her, suddenly she needs to feel him, her cunt throbbing anew. Fire drenches her veins, blood boiling and vibrant, the kind no one but Jon can conjure it up, and maybe it should scare her and maybe she should reconsider what they are doing but instead every particle of her clamors for contact.

Even his control is finite and she knows he has approached its limit when he grabs both of her hands in a clean movement and pins her to the nearest solid surface. He cups her dripping core and grasps it firmly she moans in approval at the contact of his rough skin. Thankfully he does not tease her long, or at all actually, so eager he is after waiting so long.

She is lifted up once again, this time her two legs hooked around his waist, but she doesn’t wait before she guides him into her.. The next kiss is frenzied and ends only when he groans out a curse and thrusts himself fully inside her. She does not try to stifle her scream, her head lolls as he stretches her, as he fills her but she can’t close her eyes, nevertheless, grazes into his until she sees them flutter down and watches him pants.

She swears she can feel him everywhere—her arms slung around his neck and dangling down his back, her legs wrapped over his hips, her face nestled in the crook of his throat, her breasts crushed against his chest, his hands clawing into her thighs—down to the creases of her skin. He is still not moving and the lack of friction is maddening and she feels him twitch in her, an involuntary reaction at being sheathed so snugly in her.

His rolls his hips once and she clamps down around him, moaning, then something crosses his features—she does not know what it is, has no time to guess or ask—and he pulls out almost all the way, then plunges deep. He braces a hand onto the flat surface for support, drives himself in her, looks at where they are joined, at his cock sliding smoothly in and out of her, the tendons on his neck standing out in sharp relief. She matches his thrusts, grinds back and rotates her hips in slow circles around his cock.

He rasps her name, tells he thought about her like that with his cock in his hand, tangled in his sheets on nights he could not sleep and wanted her with him and yearned for her flesh around him. He grits his teeth—she is bouncing against him, frenetic and erratic as she cries out, high-pitched and breathy—and he admits her he came in his hands imagining her exactly like she is now, face pinched up in pleasure as he slams into her, as she takes it all and demands more still.

“Fucking perfect,” he hisses, slanting his mouth over her, her fist bunched in his hair.

His hand descends to rub her hard nub and his rigid shaft stokes something in her that makes her squirm and wail and dissolve in his arms. She relishes in the burn, the feeling of being stretched and taken, she spasms with a shudder as her release floods her, collapsing in Jon’s arms and closing her eyes in satisfaction as she feels him empties himself in in her.

 

 

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She does not look at him as she gets dressed as best as she can, pulling on chiffon and lace and silk until she is halfway decent. She feels his hands on her back just as an irritated huff whistles past her lips, she nearly recoils but then understands he is lacing up her bodice, twisting and knotting the laces where she is unable to reach, and keeps her lips shut, despite her impulse to do the exact opposite. But at least in silence, in inaction, no mistakes can be made. No more, that is.

She feel his hands accidentally brushing her skin; hot, not cold; Targaryen, not Stark. Her only remaining relative who—for the gods love a good jest—refuses the legacy of their family and would rather be an unwanted bastard and a scorned warden instead. It is a bitter thought, one that makes her lips thin into a sharp line.

When all is said and done, it seems she lost everything with Bran’s revelation. A lover, but also a nephew, for he will never admit to this connection aloud, especially not as the scent of their passion lingers in the air. If it is not the repulsion that dissuades him then it will be the Northern lords who doubt his loyalty to the North and whose suspicion would only further increase, were Jon to acknowledge either connection to her.

He is already dressed as she swathes herself in furs, clad in leather and metal and furs and she nods curtly to signify she is ready to go.

“Dany,” Jon starts, the cold already whipping and the winds already blasting. Everything is cold again and everything is dead again, the world a meager corpse hollowed out. “Will you talk to me, at least?”

It is the first thing he has said since they stepped out of that damned pool, and she wishes he hadn’t spoken. Whatever he means to say, it has no place between them. And selfishness is a luxury they a cannot afford when time is something they cannot buy with all the riches in the world.

“There is nothing to talk about, my lord,” she says, her voice nothing but cold politeness. “We should come back to Winterfell before nightfall or else people shall wonder where we have wandered off to.”

The war is raging. The war is interminable. The war is over, it seems, and they have lost.

This is no time for romance.

(It’s what she tells herself when she falls asleep that night. Still, her foolish heart has no pity for her. And she wants and craves and burns for something that is impossible.)


End file.
